Gone with the Wolf - By Kristin Miller Page 0,11

smell of them. A lone guitarist in desperate need of a shave strummed away on the stage in the corner, giving a horrible rendition of “Stairway to Heaven.”

The place had an interesting feel. It had character. Spice. And it was so unlike the other bars he’d visited in Seattle.

Newspaper clippings in gold-tinseled frames covered the walls, snagging Drake’s attention. As an older couple emerged from the back half of the building and made their way toward the exit, Drake moved aside to let them pass. The faded headline of an article from October 30, 1929, caught his interest.

Dow Plummets Thirty Points. Wall Street Scrambles to Recover.

Drake remembered the day after the stock market crash well. He and Silas fought over whether to pull cash from their investments and hide it in overseas accounts or hold tight and ride out the drought. Seemed like they couldn’t agree on anything.

“Hi, handsome. What can I getcha?” The brunette waitress who’d slid up next to Drake reeked of cheap cherry-blossom lotion. Chopped, razor-short hair framed a heart-shaped face and thin lips.

“I’m here to see Emelia.” The sledgehammer pounding into Drake’s temple eased up at the mention of her name.

“She’s working the bar on the flip side. Want me to call her for you?” The waitress smiled politely, the piercings on her upper lip, chin, and eyebrows shining in the flickering overhead lights. Why women thought they had to drive nails of silver into their skin to attract men was beyond him.

“No, I was hoping to surprise her.” Drake gave one of his deviously slow winks. “You won’t give away my secret, will you?”

“Not at all.” She shook her head as the scent of her arousal hit Drake’s heightened senses. “If you change your mind, and decide you want something after all…anything…let me know. My name’s Renee.”

“Thanks,” Drake said. “I’ll remember that.”

With one last glance at the deserted front of the bar, Drake stalked around the wall that split the building in half and stopped as his heart gave a jerk.

Emelia stood behind a long, wooden bar, shaking a drink. Flipping the silver can in her palm, she poured the yellowish liquid into a glass and smiled when a tiny red straw dropped and spun, facing the customer in front of her.

Drake’s gaze stuck to her like glue. The entire building could’ve gone up in flames and he would’ve stayed to watch Emelia a minute longer. Her hips swayed confidently as she walked to the opposite end of the dimly lit room. She smiled at a scruffy-bearded fellow wearing worn flannel and suspenders, laughed when he laughed, and lit up the entire bar. She was personable and friendly, refilling the drink of a curly-haired woman trying to catch the eye of a Goth-dressed guy standing next to her. Even though there were only three customers perched at the watering hole, Emelia spun to the till as if roller skates had replaced her shoes. She was all bar business, decked in ripped jeans and a black, lace-trimmed tank. Sexy as hell.

In her natural space, Emelia didn’t fit the secretary bill Drake had initially pinned on her. Thank God. He wasn’t sure what he expected from Emelia, being a temp and all, but he’d never been hot and heavy over one of the ladies on his staff, and was secretly hoping his Luminary would have a passion for something other than filing papers.

Sliding onto the nearest stool, Drake was amazed Emelia hadn’t spotted him yet. On second thought, maybe she had and was choosing to ignore him. The thought made something in Drake’s chest pinch. Rubbing the spot with his hand, Drake watched as Emelia placed an order through the window on the far side of the bar. An older man with short, spiky hair peeked his face through the window and held his gaze on Emelia’s backside a little too long for Drake’s taste.

“What does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?” Drake said a little too loudly, leaning into an umbrella of amber light.

Emelia spun around slowly, as though she’d sink into quicksand if she moved too fast. With a nervous smile pulling at her lips, she approached him, tossing a napkin on the bar.

“We don’t have Lafite,” she said, wiping her hands on her jeans, “or anything like what you’ve got in that cellar of yours.”

“Do you have scotch?” He removed his coat, draped it over the stool next to him, and tipped his chin at the top glass shelf.

She